We left with prescriptions for Charlie’s blood pressure and pain relief medication, a referral for more blood tests, a bone scan, and an appointment in a fortnight with the visiting oncologist from Albury.
In the pharmacy, waiting for the prescriptions to be filled, I booked the other tests and appointments, but could not get them on the same day or location. Euroa didn’t have the imaging facilities for bone scans. All I could think was who was going to do this running around if it wasn’t me? Shane, perhaps? A taxi?
‘Charlie, how did you used to get to your appointments?’
‘Drove myself.’
Sitting on the pharmacy’s chrome-framed chair, he looked frail and diminished in his big ridiculous suit. Finally, his name was called. At the counter, without any confusion or hesitation, he pressed his pin number, and when it was accepted and he removed his card and slotted it back in his wallet I was surprised it had all worked.
Then he picked up his bag of tablets from the counter, and we left.
Later that night, there was an email from Warren to me, with Shane copied in. It was too efficient – a business directive designed to disallow any further discussion. I had worked in offices long enough to recognise the style.
Greer,
Re: Living arrangements
1. Shane advised my father will be staying with you on a trial basis. I accept a one-month trial, not three.
2. I have leased a two-bedroom unit in Euroa that I’ll hold onto because my wish is for my father to move there as soon as possible.
3. Shane is arranging for my father’s possessions to be removed from the retirement village and taken to the new unit. His bed will be taken to your address. Any other items he requires, please inform Shane. 3. Please document all reasonable costs (receipts where necessary), and I’ll arrange reimbursement upon also receiving your bank details.
4. I plan to fly out next month.
Regards,
Warren Chandler
14
THROUGH the laundry window, I could see Enrico’s rainbow cap in the orchard. He was pruning halfway down a row on the Josephs Road side, which meant he was making reasonable progress, but we were at least a month behind. It was overcast and to the west the sky was grey-streaked and threatening. The temperature had dropped. It bothered me that I wasn’t out there, but I had taken Charlie for a bone scan and now Sophie was home from school. We’d just planted garlic cloves in a half-wine barrel that I’d found in the shed and filled with potting mix. I was washing my hands when Sophie screamed.
Before I could get to her she’d bolted inside with Blondie at her heel, and stood stiffly beside me. I put my arm around her and together we looked out the back porch window.
Cows, ten or more, were dolefully standing around the fig tree, and under the clothesline. They were eating grass, ripping it out of the ground and lifting their heads to steadily chew. One cow was licking a side window of my car with his huge grey tongue. Others, too many to count, were strolling down from behind the shearing shed, around Enrico’s van.
My heart was racing, mouth open. Stunned, then angry that I was powerless to stop this slow black storm moving towards the orchard.
I didn’t have Shane’s phone number. Snatching up the local phone book, I couldn’t think of his last name. Charlie.
‘Stay in the house,’ I yelled to Sophie.
Out the front door, through the rose garden and across to the studio. Charlie was standing at his easel, working with a narrow palette knife, layering dark green paint.
He muttered something, a turn of his head. ‘Fences.’
In his little address book, he showed me Shane McCurdy’s number. I dialled, he answered and said he would come as soon as he could.
‘You need to come right now.’
‘I’m in Euroa.’
‘But your cows are heading towards the orchard.’
‘I’m coming.’
When Charlie walked towards the beasts, they moved away. ‘They won’t hurt you,’ he said.
With Sophie cradling Blondie and watching through the window, I stood by the garage and waved my arms at any cow that dared cross the garden to the orchard. Some stayed in the backyard, but most ignored me to continue their quiet stroll towards the orchard. I kept shaking my arms, but it was useless. Charlie was beside me, breathless.
‘No use,’ he said.
He went inside to Sophie.
I phoned Shane again but he didn’t pick up.
Cows were now slowly entering the orchard – fifty, a hundred, more than that heading into the rows. Herd-like, they followed each other. I ran to the wattles and started to work my way back up, meeting them on their way down. I yelled, frantic, in a rage, waving my arms, screaming go away. They ignored me or just stared. Some changed rows, pushing between the bushes, hooves pulling and snapping the irrigation pipe. I stood at the cypresses and watched my orchard being swarmed. Their quest was finding and eating grass and there was plenty of it along the rows. My heart was beating too fast, panicked. I kept looking out for Shane. I phoned him again, no answer. Enrico was calling out in Italian, waving his arms, but he was standing far away beside the trunk of a cypress, as if worried for his safety.
Shane came from the north paddock on a red quad bike with the golden-eyed black kelpie standing on the back, balancing as if surfing.
The dog jumped off and flew at the cows, snapping and barking. And Shane corralled them around on the bike, up, up, up. It didn’t take long; the cows obeyed. They turned and trotted back the way they had come, hips and udders swaying.
They passed under the clothesline up to the shearing shed with Shane following on the bike, the motor roaring, and the hero dog standing tall on the back.
I phoned Shane to report the damage – polypipe broken in several places, some cane damage, plenty of manure, along with trampled and eaten grass. It could have been worse.
‘Tree across the fence,’ he said.
‘We were terrified. I don’t want that to happen again.’
‘Would you like me to cut it up and fix the fence?’
I was wondering why he would even ask. And he hadn’t apologised yet.
‘I imagine you don’t know how to use a chainsaw or strain a fence.’
I was confused.
‘The tree was on your side of the fence,’ he said.
Soon after we arrived, Sophie and I had explored the boundary of the property, but I couldn’t place it.
‘So it’s my fault?’
‘You can put it that way if you want.’
So there, a new responsibility I’d not been aware of before – the sudden falling of trees and fence damage. ‘Right, then. Thank you. If you’re offering to cut up the tree, that’d be fantastic.’
‘No worries. And I’ll bring Charlie’s bed over on Sunday.’
The house was quiet. Through the front window, I could make out the shapes of trees in the moonlight. I’d taken down the purple shantung curtains and stopped pulling the blinds at night because I felt safe with Charlie and Enrico around. I poured a glass of wine and sat on the coach. Staring into the firebox, watching the flames gently pulse, I counted off the progress I’d made. Fifteen full rows had been pruned. The kitchen had been ordered. Sophie had a friend at school called Freya. An agronomist was coming to do soil and leaf tests. Charlie’s bed was on the way.
My mind drifted to Prahran and I tried to listen to the metal skating of a tram down Chapel Street. I sipped the wine, feeling myself push through the traffic until one memory folded into another, to Michael’s bedroom, and to the hopeful expression on Sophie’s face when I rushed through the door at after-school care. Nick’s magazine appearance came and went. And Lila’s.
I thought of Nick often – imagined the conversations we’d have about the packaging, the charges the distributor wanted, the value of getting involved with the Blueberry Growers’ Association. I wondered what he would think about my life here with Sophie. And yet earlier in the week, when he ha
d phoned to speak to Sophie, he’d asked me how the orchard was going, and I hadn’t told him because I suddenly felt the need to keep things to myself because he was separate to me now and with Lila. This feeling of being suspended between the past and the future, as if I were waiting for something to clear, needed to stop. It was time to move on. And with that sad discomfort, I opened my laptop and replied to Warren’s email, copying in Shane.
Hi Warren,
Thanks for your email.
I thought you’d like an update on your dad. I took him to the doctor on Tuesday and a bone scan this morning. He’s got blood tests coming up and an appointment with an oncologist in a fortnight. He’s also got new prescriptions for blood pressure and painkillers. I spoke to Shane and he’s bringing Charlie’s bed and some other things over on Sunday.
In relation to Charlie staying here on a trial, I’d like to remind you that Charlie has expressed his strong desire to live here permanently with Sophie and me. I look forward to discussing this with you when we meet. I know you have your father’s best interests in mind and therefore will consider his wishes.
Cheers,
Greer
I finished my wine while staring at Marilyn: the brush strokes, the way she came together but not in any single line. Charlie had created her image in curves, with subtle shades of pink for her skin, and her hair, eyes and lips stood out in stark contrast. It got me thinking about his work and its potential. I wondered if he’d ever had an exhibition and where he sold his art.
I put log on the fire, closed the vent off and went to bed. And drifted to sleep with the queer puzzle of Marilyn and pink canes and the slow gait of cows.
Early Sunday morning Sophie and I went to see the fallen tree. It was just above freezing, so we rugged up with coats and gloves, and an extra pair of socks to pad the soles of our boots. The air was like ice on our faces and condensation puffed from our mouths. To avoid walking through the long frosty grass we went up the track beside the orchard and past the dam. Two speckled ducks skipped and flapped from behind a cluster of reeds and slowly broke into flight across the embankment. A thin veil of mist drifted with the breeze towards the pines.
A grey eucalypt with several sprawling branches and no foliage lay flat on the ground, like it had just dropped dead from old age. There was a deep gouge in the ground. During its fall into Shane’s property the tree had crushed twenty or more metres of pickets, so now loose wire twisted and curled along the length of the flattened fence. The McCurdy paddocks rose and fell into the mid-distance. A small mob of kangaroos were grazing. Some stared at us but didn’t move. Blue gums and peppermint gums dotted the pasture and a zigzag line of tussocks led a path to a dam. From behind the hedge I could barely make out Shane’s house – perhaps the trail of smoke from one of the chimneys.
‘Horses,’ Sophie yelled, pointing.
One chestnut and a piebald pony were standing statue-still in the corner of a white-fenced paddock close to one of the sheds, probably a stable.
‘Can we go to them? Please.’
For a moment I half thought we could keep walking across the paddocks, but then I saw us at the outer buildings, awkward strangers on a visit, unsure of how to penetrate the hedge.
‘We’d have to ask first,’ I said.
‘Can we?’
I apologised, saying we’d visit another time. ‘Let’s go. It’s time for breakfast.’
For most of that day we heard the distant high-pitched mechanical groan of Shane’s chainsaw. The noise seemed constant until it became unnoticed and silent and then it would start up again, the wailing scream as he moved the blade through the fallen tree.
Later in the afternoon, as the light muted and the air chilled, he arrived with Charlie’s bed strapped onto a trailer. He pushed his ute door open in a rush, calling a hello while in motion towards the ropes. I went to help as he started on the knots.
He unthreaded the rope that was holding tight across the mattress and bed base.
‘Is this all you brought?’
‘I’m afraid so.’
‘No paintings? His set of drawers?’
‘Warren rang me. He’s got no doubts that Charlie’s won’t be staying for long. A month, max.’
‘Well, no. We agreed that it was Charlie’s decision.’
‘If he stays, I’ll bring the rest.’
I looked at him in dismay. ‘This is bullshit. Warren’s a bully. Why does everyone kowtow to him, even you? What’s the big deal with Charlie living here?’
He stopped, but kept his hands on the ropes. ‘Look, I get your predicament. But Warren wanting Charlie in Euroa is really quite reasonable.’
I had no words as he turned to the rope, pulling it loose.
‘Can you manage that end?’ he said.
We lugged the mattress, the walnut bedhead and foot, and its steel frame, into the sleep out; Charlie and Audrey’s marital bed.
Then Shane stretched out on the floor to reach up and bolted it all together. I stood beside him, holding things steady, watching the flat of his belly as he wriggled and positioned himself to angle the spanner. He called up to me, asking to move the bedhead back a little – that it was just right and could I keep it there. His black socks were worn and pilled and there were flecks of fine sawdust around the neck of his blue fleece. By the time he dropped the mattress on top, I had worked out what I wanted to say.
‘It’s undignified to treat a dying old man this way. And I’m scared Warren will somehow force Charlie to leave here. I need your help.’
‘Greer, if you hadn’t come along Charlie wouldn’t be here. He’d be in Euroa.’
‘And what’s your point?’
‘My point is, I’m sick of this.’
I crossed my arms in frustrated defiance. Under the yellow glow of the porch light he pulled his boots back on. Chimney smoke tinged the cold air.
‘Sometime in the next few weeks,’ he said, ‘I’ll get the splitter over to the tree so you can top up your woodshed. It’s good wood.’
He left then, efficiently, as if he were already thinking about something else, and if he waved goodbye I missed it. I turned to the back door and under the eve I saw a mud nest, with two tiny swallows huddled together.
Enrico cooked dinner that night, a rich bubbly stew with red wine, garlic and onions that he stirred and reduced for almost an hour before mixing in the black olives and penne. The kitchen hummed with his cooking smells, my twelve-dollar bottle of shiraz and Charlie’s jazz piano.
I was tearing lettuce leaves for the salad, and Sophie wanted to cut the cherry tomatoes. I wasn’t sure.
‘For you, bella, it is time to learn the ways of the cutting,’ Enrico said, putting the punnet in front of her.
He demonstrated with the yellow-handled vegetable knife.
And so, we allowed Sophie to use a sharp knife. I forced myself to stand back. Charlie sat stiffly, his body straining to lend assistance. He was pale and I was concerned he might be in pain. I put my hand on his shoulder.
‘Want me to get you anything?’
‘A refill.’ He pushed his glass forward.
Together we watched Sophie saw. Juice leaked on the cutting board, but no blood.
During the meal, I asked Charlie about Shane’s ex.
He sat back, a look of relaxed pleasure crossing his face, as though he was going to enjoy passing on the gossip. ‘Early this year Jess did a runner back to Melbourne. It was a nasty time, because Shane had to sell off half his family property to sort things out with her.’ He lifted his wine glass as if toasting the memory. ‘Almost five generations of McCurdys snuffed out with one divorce.’ Charlie’s face became serious. ‘She was a lovely girl with a pretty face, but she wanted more than this.’
‘He travels around, talking about cows,’ I said.
‘He’s in demand, and that’s the thing.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He’s all wrapped up in his vet work and she hated it.’
‘No
kids?’
‘Audrey was always curious about that.’
Then Charlie started coughing and pressed a fist on his chest. He tried to stand while reaching for his wine glass, but didn’t quite get his fingers around the stem. We watched in slow motion as the glass slipped and splashed across the table. Then he stood too quickly, and his chair fell backwards. He put his hand to his mouth and his fingers trembled as he stared at the pool of wine leaking into the placemats and dripping to the floor.
‘Bloody hell,’ he said. Then he glanced to Sophie, then me. ‘Sorry.’
Hunched and shuffling as fast as he could, he went to his new bedroom.
15
THE day the carpenter and plumber came to rip out my old kitchen was the same day I was driving Charlie to his first radiation treatment in Shepparton. At nine-thirty, when he hadn’t appeared from his sleep-out bedroom, I knocked on the door.
‘We’ve got to leave soon.’
No answer.
‘Are you all right in there?’
‘Don’t fuss.’
After a rap on the back door, two heavy-booted men trooped into the kitchen and looked around with the assessing eyes of tradies. The bald-headed one introduced himself as Ryan and explained they would pull the kitchen out today and perhaps start on a bit of carpentry.
‘Tomorrow we’ll start installing. Four days and we should be done.’
The plumber was already at the sink, a metal toolbox by his feet. He opened the bottom cupboard and squatted down. ‘There’s some rot here,’ he said.
Then Ryan started bouncing on the floorboards. And I thought that was all good – the new kitchen would take care of everything. In less than a week I would be opening new Polytec cupboards, stacking a dishwasher with a five-star water rating and circling an island bench with a glossy granite top.
There was silence behind Charlie’s closed door. I knocked again, then peeped in. The room was as full as I could make it, with four paintings from his studio hanging around the walls and a couple with no wire on the back leaning against the wall near the window. A chair by his bed served as a small table and there was a set of wire baskets for his clothes along with a cheap metal clothes rack I had bought in Euroa for his suits.
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